Seriously Sassy: Crazy Days

by Maggi Gibson

  ‘And I don’t mind a bit of hard work!’ I exclaim. ‘Anything would be easy compared to getting taken prisoner by Paradiso’s security guards and arrested by the police.’

  Cordelia eyeballs me – which is a pretty scary experience. ‘Are you sure about that, Sass?’

  ‘Course I am,’ I say forcefully. ‘I want to do my best for Taslima. Course I do.’

  ‘Omigod, Cordelia!’ Megan gasps. ‘You’re not thinking about that stupid bikini car wash idea, are you? Cos if it’s that, then you can COUNT ME OUT!’

  ‘No way!’ Cordelia laughs and shakes her head so her long black bunches swish softly. ‘And I think we can make more than a hundred pounds. Maybe even two hundred.’ Her green eyes glitter.

  ‘Well, I say we do it!’ I say enthusiastically. ‘Whatever it is!’

  ‘So come on, Cordelia,’ Magnus urges. ‘What’s the big idea?’

  ‘No way! Absolutely not!’ I exclaim.

  ‘But you said you’d do anything!’ Cordelia protests.

  ‘Yeah, anything except that!’ I pick up Tiny Ted and fire him at the mini-basketball ring on the back of my door. He misses totally and thwacks violently off the wall.

  ‘But think about it,’ Cordelia pleads. ‘If you do a lunchtime concert at school we’re bound to get at least a hundred kids in. You heard them at assembly. They WANT you to sing!’

  ‘And if we charge them even just one pound each, well, that’d be a hundred pounds straight off,’ Megan says excitedly.

  ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea!’ Magnus grins.

  ‘Well, that’s cos it’s not you who’s got to get up on stage!’ I protest.

  ‘But I thought you LOVED getting up on stage.’ Confusion flickers across Sindi-Sue’s face.

  ‘Not any more,’ I say vehemently. ‘Look, I’m not going to sing again ever. I’ve made my mind up –’

  ‘But it’s for a good cause!’ Sindi-Sue protests. ‘I mean, if I could sing, I’d do it, but let’s face it,’ she smiles ruefully, ‘I don’t think anyone would pay to hear me.’15

  ‘So it’s GOT to be you, Sassy!’ Cordelia says simply. ‘Or it can’t happen. And we don’t raise the money.’

  ‘Look,’ I splutter, ‘I’m not going to do it. So forget about it. There must be something else …’

  ‘Something that would raise over a hundred quid in one go?’ Magnus shakes his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, if there is, Sass, then you come up with it,’ Cordelia eyeballs me again.

  I think frantically. ‘Er … Magnus could do a sponsored swim?’

  ‘Obviously I could do a swim. Like, if anyone wants me to,’ Magnus puffs himself up.

  ‘That is SO-O-O-O boring,’ Sindi-Sue exclaims. Then hurriedly adds with a quick flutter of her fingers at Magnus, ‘No offence, Magnus, sweetie, but I just can’t see people rushing to sponsor you. Anyway, sponsoring is really overdone, don’t you think? And it’s for little kids. I mean, we’ll get much more money if we offer people something they can actually enjoy.’

  ‘Come on, Sassy,’ Beano says with big pleading eyes. ‘Think of how dull our sad little lives are. Our very own concert in Strathcarron would be ace!’

  Everyone’s staring at me now. And I feel awful. Cos deep down I know they’re right. It probably is the easiest way to get a lot of money in a short time.

  ‘I bet we could get old Smollett to give us the school hall for free,’ Magnus suggests, like he’s not understood that I’m not going to do it.

  ‘And Miss Cassidy would let us make posters and stuff in her room,’ Megan adds.

  ‘And Beethoven would let us use the music studio equipment, you know, the amplifiers and stuff,’ Sindi-Sue says excitedly. (‘Beethoven’ is actually Mr Beaton, our music teacher.)

  ‘Look!’ I interrupt. ‘Stop making plans for something that is JUST NOT GOING TO HAPPEN!’

  I feel so frustrated I want to stomp off to my room. But I’m in it already. ‘And in any case,’ I add more quietly. ‘I CAN’T do it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Cordelia asks.

  ‘Cos,’ I say huffily.

  ‘Cos what?’ Cordelia persists, her green eyes narrowing.

  I take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. ‘Cos … I don’t have a guitar. Not any more.’

  ‘You don’t have a guitar?’ Megan gasps, looking around, like she expects to see it propped against my desk where it used to sit. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean … that I gave it away. Last Friday. To the Oxfam shop.’

  There’s a shocked silence.

  ‘I told you. I’m serious. I’m NOT going to sing again.’ There’s a quiver in my voice and I hate myself for not being able to control it. Tears brim in my eyes and I bite my bottom lip to stop them spilling over. My friends look embarrassed.

  Suddenly, Magnus gets to his feet and clears his throat. ‘Look, I think I’d better get going,’ he says, then he climbs out the window on to the big branch of the tree and disappears through the leaves. Beano and Midge follow him.

  ‘Is it OK if me and Megan use the door?’ Sindi-Sue asks, standing up and tugging down her tiny denim skirt.

  I nod.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Megan gives me a sad smile. ‘OK, so seven quid’s not much. But at least we raised something. At least we tried.’

  I bite my lip hard to stop the tears spilling over. Grrrr … There’s nothing worse for getting me all emotional than people showing me sympathy.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ Cordelia says, giving me a quick hug.

  As the door closes behind them I throw myself on to the bed and lie staring up at the ceiling.

  All I want to do is forget that I could ever sing. To leave the old Sassy behind. Find someone Cordelia’s doing the printing with a new that I can be. I thought if I gave my guitar away that would be it. That I wouldn’t ever have to think about singing again.

  But it doesn’t look like it’s going to work out that way …

  That night after tea I’m sitting in the front of the car with Digby, on the way to Fossil Grove Old Folks’ Home. Dad’s in the back working his way through a pile of constituency mail, which means Digby and I can’t natter. Bored, I take out my mobile and flick through my saved messages. Four from Phoenix. One from Twig.

  Deep in thought, I stare at the passing cars and houses. It’s a warm evening and people are out cutting their lawns, unpacking shopping, chatting to their neighbours. Kids are playing in gardens. Everyone’s life seems settled and ordered – except mine.

  Just then Digby swings the car into a leafy drive and I tuck my mobile back into my pocket. Fossil Grove, A Modern Residential Home For The Elderly says a big sign. Seconds later, Digby pulls the car to a halt in a small car park. I get out and survey the building. It certainly looks state-of-the-art from the outside, with lots of glass. It’s even got its own garden and big mature trees. It might well be the perfect place to stick Mum and Dad in a few years, you know, when they get gaga and can’t look after themselves properly any more. I make a mental note to pay extra special attention to what it’s got to offer. Hopefully I can help Dad make a good impression on the matron. I might even ask if there’s a waiting list I can put the parentals’ names on.

  As we approach the entrance, Dad straightens his tie and puts his I’m-an-MP face on. Digby rings the buzzer. There’s an old lady on the other side of the glass door staring at us like she thinks we’re strange creatures from another planet. I smile and give a little wave, and while I wonder whether or not that’s enough to count as a good deed, the sweet old lady raises one hand from her walking frame and waggles her bony fingers back at me.

  Suddenly, the door swing opens and Da
d and Digby step forward – but not before the sweet old lady seizes her chance and hurtles towards the open door as fast as an Olympic sprinter off the blocks!

  Skilful as a slalom skier she weaves past Dad and Digby – just as two nurses appear from nowhere shouting, ‘Stop her!’

  I open my arms – and she knocks me over like a skittle. Honestly, she looks so frail, but I swear it was like getting hit by Brickhouse Britney from the Fifth Year in a rugby tackle. Of course, I cushion her fall, which is just as well, cos you hear all these stories about little old ladies and broken hips and how hard it is for them to mend.

  While I gasp for breath the nurses pull her off and bundle her back into the home. I struggle to my feet, protesting that I’m fine, honestly. Not that anyone seems to care! Then I stagger through the glass doors while a nurse guards them till they close automatically behind me. Safely inside, I’m shocked when I see my reflection in a mirror. My T-shirt’s all dusty from the path and I’ve got some dead leaves and twigs in my hair.

  Before I can do anything to clean myself up, a middle-aged woman with a perfect dress and a perfect smile and perfect hair appears in front of us.

  ‘Welcome to Fossil Grove,’ she beams. ‘I’m the matron, Mrs Pratchett. The residents are very excited about your visit.’

  Mrs Pratchett gives us a tour of the home.

  ‘It’s lovely to see a young person taking an interest,’ she beams as she shows me the delights of their disabled toilet facilities. I ask if I can possibly use the loo just to tidy myself up a bit, so she leaves me to it.

  To be honest I find the disabled toilet a bit freaky. There are extra handles all over the place in case you’re a bit unsteady on your feet, and as well as a mirror at normal eye height, there’s a mirror at, well, bottom height, which gives me a kind of unfortunate view of myself when I sit down.

  I wash my hands with the Taps especially designed for the weaker grip of the elderly as the label above them says, and I can’t help but think that the old dear who careered into me at the front door is more than capable of using a normal tap, thank you. I dry my hands on the super fast hand-dryer, which is so strong I’m surprised a few little old ladies haven’t been blown into orbit16, then I prepare to rejoin Dad and Digby.

  But no sooner have I stepped out of the loo than this deafening siren goes off and a red light above the door starts flashing. It’s like something from a James Bond film where the superspy hits a trip wire and all the doors lock shut and baddies come flying from everywhere at once.

  Automatically, I freeze and put my hands up. The little old lady who flattened me at the front door leans on her walking frame, smirking, as a male nurse pushes me aside, opens the toilet door behind me and pulls the red light cord. With a final thin wail the siren stops.

  ‘The red one’s the emergency cord,’ the nurse says sternly. ‘The white one puts the light out.’ I glance into the toilet, reach past him and pull the white cord. The light goes out.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say sheepishly. ‘I won’t get it wrong again.’

  Digby and Dad stand staring at me. I can read the look on Dad’s face. I have seen it many times before.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I whisper reassuringly as we follow Mrs Pratchett along a carpeted corridor where old people are dotted about like potted plants. ‘I won’t get anything else wrong. I promise.’

  Quietly I follow Mrs Pratchett into the Sunset Rest Room. There are old people dozing here and there in high-backed armchairs, or sitting chomping their gums and dribbling, or spouting rubbish at anyone who’ll listen. It reminds me of somewhere else, but it takes a few minutes before I place it.

  Of course! It’s just like the staffroom at Strathcarron High. I have a little giggle to myself as Dad and Digby chat to residents, most of whom seem to be hard of hearing.

  ‘TURN YOUR HEARING AID ON, MR SMITH!’ Mrs Pratchett bellows at an old man in a button-up cardigan. He fumbles for a minute in the pocket of his trousers, then pulls out a pair of specs and shakily shoves them on his nose.

  ‘YOUR HEARING AID!’ Mrs Pratchett attempts again, and several old dears who had been dozing, their mouths hanging open, are startled awake.

  Next Mrs Pratchett ushers us through to the Sunshine Activity Room. I heave a sigh of relief. The old people in here show signs of life. Some of the women are knitting and chattering. Others are playing cards and dominoes. There’s even an elderly couple playing table tennis. And they’re pretty good.

  A murmur of excitement runs around the room as Mrs Pratchett calls for silence.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she announces with a very pleased look. ‘Our Very Important Visitor is here. I have great pleasure in presenting to you our new Member of Parliament, Mr Angus Wilde and his assistant, Digby.’ Mrs Pratchett doesn’t introduce me. Obviously she’s one of those annoying grown-ups who think teenagers don’t count as people.

  Dad preens himself, clears his throat and launches into a speech all about how important the ‘silver’ vote is and how he and his party will have the concerns of old people at the top of their political agenda.

  ‘After all,’ Dad says grandly – and he pauses for effect – ‘if a society doesn’t look after its elderly, what does that say about it?’

  There’s a polite ripple of applause. Mrs Pratchett looks pleased. ‘And now Mr Wilde has very kindly agreed to answer any questions you may have for him.’

  There’s a silence. Then suddenly, a man with a mop of silver hair and gold-rimmed specs sticks his hand up. Mrs Pratchett nods at him like an infant teacher giving a child permission to speak.

  ‘It’s a question for the kid,’ the silver-haired man says gruffly. Mrs Pratchett raises an eyebrow, Dad’s face falls and a strange mix of disappointment and apprehension flits across it. I throw him a don’t-worry-Dad-I’ll-handle-it look. The silver-haired man takes his glasses off and squints at me like he’s trying to focus, then his face lights up.

  ‘I knew it!’ he says triumphantly. ‘I never forget a face. You were on telly! Singing at that festival. That was you, wasn‘t it?’

  Dad’s face is a perfect picture of panic. Deep inside I feel a small sharp pain, cos I have consigned anything to do with my past life to the trash can of my heart. But I keep my cool.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, trying to sound like it’s no big deal. ‘That was me.’

  ‘Now,’ Mrs Pratchett interrupts, a note of impatience creeping in at the edge of her voice. ‘I know some of you have questions for Mr Wilde –’

  ‘We thought you were very good,’ a woman with bouncy white curls says, cutting across Mrs Pratchett.

  ‘We agreed with everything you said,’ her companion, a man with a perfectly round, bald head beams at me. ‘You know, about Paradiso’s.’

  ‘Why don’t you give us a song?’ a tiny little woman with bright blue eyes pipes up in a bird-like voice. ‘I can play piano if you want.’

  ‘Oh yes, that would be lovely, dear,’ a woman in a wheelchair smiles.

  A murmur of agreement runs round the dayroom. I catch phrases like ‘tremendous voice’ and ‘She’s going to be a star,’ and it’s my turn to be gripped by panic.

  ‘So what do you say, kid?’ the man with the mop of silver hair demands. ‘Are you going to give us a treat? Brighten our dull old days?’

  I look round the room. A sea of wrinkled, bright-eyed faces stares back. My stomach clenches. I really don’t know what to do! I look to Dad, but he gives me an It’s-up-to-you shrug.

  ‘I’m … s-s-sorry,’ I stammer, my voice tiny. ‘I’ve given up singing. I’m never going to sing again.’

  A sigh of disappointment fills the room, followed by a slow muttering. Then an ancient, t
iny woman stands up shakily.

  ‘My name is Peggy Miller,’ she says, her voice amazingly young and strong. ‘I’m ninety-nine years old and, the Good Lord willing, I’ll be a hundred very soon. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, young lady, it’s this: if you’ve been given a talent – and you have, my dear – then it’s your duty to use it, to do your best with it. You don’t just owe it to yourself. You owe it to others too. Otherwise,’ she pauses and fixes me with a stare so fierce I’m sure she can see right into my soul, ‘you’ll get to my age and you’ll wonder, Why didn’t I do what I was put on this earth to do? Why didn’t I fulfil my destiny?’

  A ripple of applause ensues, accompanied by mutterings of ‘Peggy’s right, you know,’ and ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  And I don’t know what to say17 – when thankfully a gong sounds somewhere nearby.

  ‘Time for tea and cakes!’ Mrs Pratchett announces with a quick double-clap of her hands. ‘So we’ll have to postpone the pleasure of a sing-along until another time. Everyone through to the dining hall. Hurry hurry!’

  There’s a fair amount of grumbling, but thankfully the lure of cake outweighs the desire to hear me sing. Digby and Dad swing back into politician-in-public mode, each grabbing a wheelchaired resident and making off with them.

  The man with the mop of silver hair homes in on me. ‘You sing your songs, lassie,’ he says. ‘And come back and see us when you’re famous.’

  I smile shakily. What’s the point in telling him that I’m not going to be famous? That a whole herd of wild elephants couldn’t drag me up on stage and make me sing again. After all, once I go he’ll probably forget all about me.

  While Dad and Digby and the others scoff cakes in the dining hall I keep a low profile until it’s time to leave.

  As we head towards the exit, the old dear who made a dash for the door on our arrival eyes me. For a split second I think of holding the security door open as I pass through, of letting her make her bid for freedom, of cheering her on as she goes sprinting down the path on her little old-lady legs. Then Dad catches my eye. And I know it’s more than my life’s worth.